Who Run the World (DNA)
by somanyfeelings
Summary: Fitz, Simmons, and Skye get drunk for science, and Rosalind Franklin is a strong british scientist who didn't nearly get what she deserved.


_b__ased on drfitzy's marvelous headcanon_

* * *

It all starts with a Buzzfeed quiz, and Fitz realizes almost instantly that any event that starts like that is an event he should be wary of participating in. He does anyway.

"So, guys," Skye declares. "What kind of drunk are you?"

There's almost certainly something better for her to be doing. In fact, both Fitz and Simmons know precisely what she's supposed to be doing, but that doesn't stop Skye from trolling around on her laptop from the corner of the lab and interrupting the scientists every once and a while with another quiz.

Neither of them answers, so Skye continues, "Simmons, you're up. First question: what's your favorite type of drink?"

Simmons sighs, unable to keep a hint of a grin from tugging at her lips, and turns toward Skye. "Well are you going to give me any choices?"

And that's how they find out that Skye is a normal drunk, Fitz is a tired drunk, and Simmons is an angry drunk. But that's not something they can simply accept without testing, Skye claims.

(Because, she says, what even is a normal drunk? She feels slighted, and obviously the only way to rectify that is to determine for themselves what kind of drunk she is. It's questionable logic at best, but no one seems to second guess her.)

Fitz looks at Simmons, and Simmons looks at Fitz. Skye watches the interaction with a smirk.

"Last person drunk has to make breakfast tomorrow," she says.

Fitz nods. "You're on."

Fitz gets to make breakfast, though he claims it's on purpose. It was, he said, necessary to have one partially sober person around to watch over the other two.

"Fitz," Skye deadpans. "May's already the designated driver."

He makes a point of dramatically swigging his beer, and Skye accepts it.

"Are you feeling annoyed yet? Simmons, are you angry?"

"Not yet," they answer nearly in unison. (Skye finds it a little unnerving, their whole psychic thing.)

"What about you, Skye?" Simmons asks. "Are you feeling particularly loving? How about charitable? Energetic?"

Skye murmurs, "I'm always energetic, Simmons" and makes a somewhat inappropriate hand gesture. Simmons chokes on her beer.

It hits them suddenly, like someone has flipped a light switch from "sober" to "goddamn we're drunk."

And it's only minutes later that Skye randomly blurts, "People are weird, man. Like, not people people, even though they definitely are weird. But the insides. It's confusing." She's looking curiously at the double helix poster in the wall as she speaks, and the scientists assume this is what had prompted her drunken musings.

Simmons makes a mental note to watch for the signs of deep drunkenness as a possibility, and then she looks up sharply, having actually digested Skye's words. And random or not, Fitz's eyes widen. He shakes his head vigorously, trying to get Skye's attention. "Don't do it," he mouths. "Stop. Stop now."

Per usual, she does the opposite. "I mean," Skye continues, "All the cell things and DNA, what's up with that?"

He groans. It's too late.

Simmons's eyes flash with something like irritation, and she sets down her bottle. "Have you ever heard of Rosalind Franklin?"

Fitz sighs dramatically and puts his head into his hands.

"Um… No?" Skye mutters sheepishly. "Should I have?" She realizes immediately that that was the wrong thing to say, for Simmons nearly falls out of her chair.

"Of course! She discovered the double helix structure of DNA, Skye. She was a pioneer, a legend, a strong, wonderful British woman. She deserves a Nobel prize as much as any laureate ever has." Simmons talks with her hands, Skye has noticed, and now is no different. If anything the alcohol in her system only emphasizes the effect, and the offense in her tone is visible in the sharpness of her motions as well.

Skye's eyes are wide, and she nods slightly to signal for Simmons to continue. She may not be all too scientifically minded, but now she's curious. She wants to know more, whatever Fitz may think. He continues to shake his head, encouraging Skye to stop it now, but Skye is much too amused to comply.

"But no!" Simmons cries, tone bitter. "Her work was stolen by two misogynistic gits named Watson and Crick. They got the credit! They saw her photograph — one of the finest examples of x-ray crystallography, if I may add — and took the information for themselves. It's ridiculous, quite frankly. Their own hypothesis had been completely wrong. A triple helix. She deserved so much better." Her eyes are narrowed at the beer bottle, and Fitz is almost worried she'll smash it across the table. There's a moment if silence as Skye and Fitz digest her rant.

"So… You like Rosalind Franklin," Skye concludes unnecessarily.

"How'd you notice?" Fitz mutters.

Simmons turns her glare to him, then, and raises her eyebrows after a moment.

"Okay, okay," he says, "I'm sorry. You're right: they did steal her work. But you bring it up every time you get drunk."

"She is a strong British woman!" Simmons repeats. "And that is something worth remembering!"

Fitz makes pancakes the next morning, and when Ward comes downstairs to find the three of them sitting in the lab eating, he doesn't question it.

Simmons seems to be angrily talking, her forehead crinkled and hands waving energetically. Fitz, on the other hand, looks exhausted.

Ward turns right back around before he can get dragged into this mess, but he can't help but catch a few words.

"-a strong British woman, Fitz."

"Fitz, Simmons, guys, scientists aside. Was that quiz right or was that quiz right?"


End file.
